


A Primer for the Small Weird Orchestra Loves

by cosmicbluebells



Series: Violin Lessons and Other Assorted Shenanigans [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Classical Music, M/M, Mutual Pining, References to Howl's Moving Castle, high school orchestra, sakuatsu if you use binoculars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29236983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicbluebells/pseuds/cosmicbluebells
Summary: “Hi?” Rintarou says. It comes out more like a question. He should probably know the guy’s name, since he’s seen him around a few times before, but he doesn't, so he just keeps his mouth shut and waits for an introduction.“I’m Osamu,” the boy blurts out. He shifts from foot to foot. “First violin.” He’s got a pleasing voice, mellow and a little husky.Two developments make Rintarou's second year in string orchestra much more interesting. One: the weight of being principal second violin. Two: Miya Osamu.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Series: Violin Lessons and Other Assorted Shenanigans [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2161404
Comments: 22
Kudos: 91





	A Primer for the Small Weird Orchestra Loves

**Author's Note:**

> name taken from the [richard siken poem](https://genius.com/Richard-siken-a-primer-for-the-small-weird-loves-annotated/). unbeta-ed and not read fully by the author because i am unwilling to face my own mistakes.
> 
> classical music recommendations in [this playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6fn20yCDoJjLE6jUjgQkvA?si=KSkdi6hHTy2pqQHsikqcEw/). this fic was written for an audience of one (1) person and that person is me so if it's incomprehensible i truly apologize.

**_O1. allemande_ **

On his first day as an Inarizaki second-year, Rintarou pauses in front of the auditorium. His violin case is strapped to his back and he clutches his school bag in his free hand. 

He looks at the messily-scribbled ‘ORCHESTRA REHEARSAL’ stuck to the door with a pink Post-It, and sighing, pushes the door open.

The auditorium is a mess. One of the double basses drops their bow and it clatters on the floor. Stands bob up and down as students try to figure out where to put them, pencils and boxes of rosin flying through the air between them.

The worst part about string orchestra is that people are so fixated on being the loudest that they never stop to think about what's going on around them. There's also the fact that every single one of them, from the double bass to the viola to the piccolo, is a massive fucking show-off, and somewhere in the process of regaling their stand partners with stories of their new solo pieces, they forget that no one gives a shit about them.

As the viola section tunes, the dissonance ringing in the air fades to a lighter, cleaner sound. Two boys chase each other in circles around the conductor’s podium, yelling obscenities and throwing punches at each other in a distinctively sibling-esque fashion. 

Rintarou thinks they must be twins. He’s never seen one of them without the other.

Kita pauses his scales. He spins around on the piano bench to glare at the two of them with a disapproving look on his face. The new concertmaster, Aran, massages his temples.

There are only fifty people in the orchestra, give or take a few, but with the cacophony, it sounds more like a hundred.

The steady beat of the double bass pulsing in Rintarou's veins is a welcome respite from the voices laid overtop. He finds his seat at the front of the second violin section and pulls out his instrument. 

He hasn’t touched it in nearly two weeks, not since the spring concert last year. It might be the longest he’s ever gone without practicing. His instrument is probably (definitely) out of tune. The A string vibrates with a dissonant _t_ _wang_ when he draws his bow across it and he curses mentally. 

“Hey.”

One of the boys from earlier stands in front of his chair, twisting his hands. Rintarou almost drops his bow in surprise.

“Hi?” Rintarou says. It comes out more like a question. He should probably know the guy’s name, since he’s seen him around a few times before (either in the first violin section or squabbling with his brother), but he doesn’t, so he just keeps his mouth shut and waits for an introduction.

“I’m Osamu,” the boy blurts out. He shifts from foot to foot. “First violin.” He’s got a pleasing voice, mellow and a little husky.

Rintarou stares at him. He pulls out his phone, taps on the instrument tuner app, and puts it on the stand without breaking his gaze. “Suna. Principal second.”

“Yer probably wonderin’ why I came over here,” Osamu tells him sheepishly. Instead of expecting Rintarou to reply, he barrels on, the words coming out in a rush. “Well, this is kinda embarrassin’, but Aran told me I ain’t listenin’ enough to the second violins, and it’s messin’ up the whole section. So I thought it would be nice to practice with one of y’all.” He spreads his arms and looks down at Rintarou expectantly. “Ya up fer it?”

Rintarou raises his eyebrows. “Why me?”

Osamu deflates. He waves his hands around, evidently looking for an answer. “Well, yer the principal second now, so you’ll know the part better than anyone else, and we’re in the same year. I’ve seen ya play a solo before, actually—at the concert last year. I think ya could really help me. If ya want to, ‘course,” he supplies hastily.

As he starts tuning out Osamu’s rambling, Rintarou feels a pair of eyes boring into his head, and when he turns around, he sees Aran and Kita staring at him. In sync, they both mouth: _do it._

Aran even adds a: _please_.

“Sure,” Rintarou says, cutting Osamu off. “I’ll do it.”

Osamu brightens. “Really?” 

_He's kind of cute when he smiles_ , thinks Rintarou. He tries in vain to ignore the goddamn _sparkles_ in Osamu’s eyes. “Yeah. Why not? I haven’t practiced in a few weeks, though. I’m pretty rusty.”

“Thanks,” Osamu says, clapping his hands. His eyes crinkle.

Rintarou makes eye contact with Aran as the conductor steps up to the podium and calls everyone to silence. Hurriedly, Osamu leans into his ear to tell him, “Meet me at the entryway after rehearsal, ‘kay? I wanna figure out some practice times fer us to get together.” His breath tickles Rintarou’s ear.

He nods and Osamu rushes back to his seat next to Ginjima.

Rintarou grabs his sheet music and a pencil from his violin case. 

The theme from Howl’s Moving Castle stares back at him from the page. Ren and Michinari had coordinated a streamlined campaign last year with the end goal of getting to play this piece at the summer concert, and all the students had rallied behind them with unmatched enthusiasm.

The conductor caved after two weeks of going into her office every day and seeing cardboard signs written in Sharpie, (unsuccessfully) duct-taped to the walls.

Rintarou’s personal favourite said: _GIVE US GHIBLI OR GIVE US DEATH_.

Riseki leans forward and taps him on the shoulder. “‘Scuse me,” he whispers. “I forgot my pencil. D’you have an extra one?”

Rintarou rolls his eyes. He gives Riseki a mechanical pencil. “Make sure to bring yours next time.”

“I will.”

He sneaks a glance at Osamu. He’s making faces at his brother in the percussion section, alternating between flipping him off and sticking out his tongue. But when he notices Rintarou watching him, he flushes a light pink and swivels around. He straightens up attentively, flashing a covert thumbs up towards the second violins.

Resolutely, Rintarou tears his attention away and concentrates fixedly on his sheet music, as if staring hard enough at the chromatic scale will stop him from thinking about the dimple in Osamu’s left cheek.

The conductor claps her hands. “Most of y’all probably haven’t looked at the music yet, but yer gonna have to start rehearsin’ as much as you can if ya wanna be ready fer the summer concert. Let’s try it from the top,” she intones, and off they go.

_________

When he packs up his violin case and walks out of the auditorium, Osamu is waiting for him. He sips a banana milk carton absently. The strap of his violin case is slipping off his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

Rintarou walks up to him and he smiles almost instantly, eyes flashing with excitement. “Suna.”

“Yep,” Rintarou says. He resists the urge to adjust the strap of Osamu’s case and his face warms. “So, what were you thinking?”

He starts walking towards the school exit. Osamu falls into step with him.

“Well, I think we could start with practicin’ together a few times a week. Maybe twice? I’m free most of the time. ‘Tsumu—my brother, ya might know him—he doesn’t play strings, just percussion. So I ain’t gotten to practice with anyone else in a while, and I think it’d be cool.”

Rintarou nods. “That sounds good. We can use one of the practice rooms. Does tomorrow morning work for you?”

Osamu grins and flashes him a thumbs up. “Tomorrow’s great. Fer coordination and stuff, we might have to get phone numbers?” he asks Rintarou carefully. Like he isn’t sure if he’ll say yes.

“It’s fine. Tell me your number and I’ll text you later.”

Osamu visibly perks up. Rintarou notices him doing that a lot, but he dismisses it as a byproduct of his boundless enthusiasm. 

He avoids Osamu’s gaze as he punches in the digits.

The number sits innocently at the top of his contact list, but he hurriedly swipes out and exits the app like it’s a nuclear bomb ready to detonate.

They’re at the gate of the school now, where Rintarou goes left on his walk home. He expects Osamu to go right, since that’s the direction most people live in, but the other boy just follows him.

“'Tsumu’s got a tutorial with the percussion leader today,” he says, by way of explanation. He tosses his milk carton into a nearby trash can. “So he ain’t walkin’ home with me.”

Rintarou fumbles for an answer, eventually settling with a curt: “I don’t think we live in the same neighbourhood.”

Osamu smiles, his dimple popping out. “You’d be right ‘bout that.”

“I mean—most people go the other way when they walk home,” he points out instead. 

“I live in this direction too. We can go together, right?”

Rintarou shrugs. “Sure, I guess,” he says, trying to sound indifferent.

The sun is sinking behind the hills, reflecting off the tanned warmth of Osamu’s skin and setting his face awash in dusky orange. The flaming afterglow of dusk lands in the slate-gray of his eyes. It’s almost unfair how attractive he looks right now. 

Rintarou turns his head and glares hard at a scuff mark on his school shoes.

At the next intersection, he goes right and Osamu goes left.

“Bye, Suna,” Osamu calls over his shoulder. “Thanks again fer offerin’ to help. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

_________

He gets a text that night from Osamu, an onigiri sticker with ‘good night’ attached.

from: suna rintarou

_good night to you too_

from: miya osamu

_see you tomorrow!!!!_

_[1 sticker attached]_

It’s an egg roll this time. Rintarou flops facedown into his pillow and almost screams, but he just ends up sighing. Deeply.

_**2\. courante** _

Osamu looks just as stupidly handsome the next day, rumpled clothes and messy hair and half-lidded eyes only adding to the look. His voice is muddled with sleep. 

Daylight floods in through a window to highlight the curve of his lips. It bounces off the pin on his backpack, a sushi keychain with a smiley face.

A breeze blows in from outside and ruffles the music on the stand. A cicada chirps.

Osamu yawns and stretches, right in the middle of a rant about his brother meeting someone on Music Stack Exchange that he ‘totally likes, but he don't wanna admit it.’

There’s a slice of skin where his shirt rides up, unblemished and paler than the rest of his body. Rintarou blinks. 

“I mean, ya should hear him,” Osamu goes on. He lowers his arms and the sliver of skin disappears back under his school shirt. Rintarou silently mourns the loss. “He’s all _Omi taught me about jazz yesterday,_ and _didja know Omi plays flute_ and _viola?_ They’re gonna be married any day now. And the weird thing is, he doesn’t even know what the hell this guy looks like. Just that he lives in Tokyo and he’s the same age as us. _Allegedly_ ,” he says plainly.

“That sounds like a disaster.”

“It is,” he declares. He points at Rintarou with his bow like the host of a game show. “I’m glad yer on my side, at least.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Rintarou says, tightening his bow and pointedly _not_ thinking of Osamu’s stomach. “So, mind telling me what you’re having trouble with?”

He hums. “Measure 116 is givin’ me a headache, ‘specially since I have no idea how the second violin part’s gonna fit in. There’s a cadenza in my solo piece where I wanna do a similar shifting thing, and I’ve been tryna figure it out fer weeks.”

It’s barely seven in the morning, and the sun is still hidden behind the hills, frost clinging to the practice room window and a chill working its way through the walls. Rintarou wraps his sweater around his shoulders, grips tighter on his coffee thermos, and nods slowly. “Okay. I think we can work with that. I’m not an expert, though, and there are definitely things you’re better at than me. Because you’re in first violin and all that.”

 _And I’m not_ , he adds silently. 

The orchestra hierarchy is weird like that; as an unspoken rule, all the best violin players are in the first section, while the younger ones are tossed into the second section with a few good players to pick up the slack.

Objectively, he knows being principal second violin makes him the best of those ‘good players.’ But he isn’t the biggest fan of the extra organization his role saddles him with, and he would much rather be relegated somewhere in the middle of the first violins.

Osamu doesn’t seem to notice. “Nah,” he disagrees easily. “Ya don’t have to flatter me, we both know it ain’t true. Yer way better than me.”

Rintarou rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.” He points his finger at Osamu’s sheet music. “This part is pretty easy if you break it down. I’d suggest starting with some shifting exercises when you practice—there’s a helpful technique sheet on IMSLP that we can print out later. And make sure you’re solid on the tuning.”

“Got it.”

“A good thing to remember is that both of these slurs start on a D, so if you hold it for a while, it’ll resonate with the open string. You can use that for your cadenza too.” He keeps talking, almost absent-mindedly, remembering the advice he’s absorbed from years of shifting practice and technique exercises.

He doesn’t dare to look away from the music in case Osamu does something mildly charming again. He won’t be able to resist staring.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he adds, tapping the stand. “You can do any chromatic scales in triplets with the same bowing pattern for more practice.”

Osamu watches him sleepily. His lashes flutter a few times, casting shadows over his cheekbones. Even half-closed, the twinkle in his eyes is clearly visible. 

If Rintarou hadn’t planned out what to say yesterday, he would’ve tripped up before now. As it is, he can barely focus on the music long enough to realize Osamu still expects him to say something. 

“So yeah,” he finishes lamely. “We can try playing it together, then go from there.”

“Cool,” Osamu says readily, clapping his hands.

“I’ll put the metronome on. 88 to the quarter note, okay?”

They play the phrase together six times, steadier and more fluid each time. The smile on Osamu’s face grows as he plays.

Messy diatonic scales morph into clear chromaticism and ring through the air. Osamu’s foot taps, his fingers dance across the fingerboard, and he makes eye contact with Rintarou, grin big and bright and dazzling.

Rintarou’s heart beats with the metronome in double-time, nearly fluttering out of his chest.

_________

Osamu walks home with him every day for the rest of the week, humming along to whatever’s playing in his earbuds and occasionally offering Rintarou some of his food. 

He never accepts, but that doesn’t deter Osamu. It’s like a game, kind of. Every day, Osamu takes something out of his lunchbox (usually an onigiri or a box of Pocky) and waves it in front of Rintarou’s face, trying to bait him into eating it.

Rintarou would feel bad if not for the competitive edge Osamu’s smile takes on after he declines, a mixture of bold and calculating. Like he’s planning his next move. 

On anyone else, it would be positively terrifying, but Osamu carries all the gravitas of an overexcited puppy, so it’s just slightly disconcerting.

Rintarou observes this over days of orchestra practice spent covertly peeking at the first violins every few minutes. If Osamu didn’t sit right behind the concertmaster it would look suspicious, but he manages to pass it off as an obligation to make sure he’s doing the right bowing patterns.

On Friday, he waits for Osamu to finish packing up so they can leave together. It’s become part of his routine so quickly he doesn’t notice, until Kita brushes past him and says, “You and Osamu been friendly lately, huh?”

“I guess so,” he tells Kita, fumbling. “I don’t—it’s a recent development. But you probably already know that,” he adds, recalling that Kita had been there when Osamu first approached him.

Kita nods. “Ya like helpin’ him practice, then?”

Rintarou is prepared for most things, but he doesn’t expect what comes out of his mouth to be: “Yeah. It’s really fun.” Then he realizes it _i_ _s_ fun, walking home with Osamu and listening to him rehearse his solo piece in the mornings and playing together, just the two of them alone in the practice room at daybreak.

“Glad to hear it,” Kita answers. He tucks his music binder further under his arm and turns back to the auditorium. “I gotta go now, but I’ll see ya around.” Then Aran comes up to them and he and Kita walk to the doors together, footsteps in perfect sync.

“Hey,” Osamu calls, jogging up to him and tugging his earbuds out of his ears. He halts in front of Rintarou and angles his head to the exit. “D’ya wanna start walkin’?”

“Okay.”

They’re past the gates when Rintarou spots Kita and Aran again, shadowy figures in the light of the tangerine sky. They turn right, and Rintarou stumbles over the curb, the strap of his case falling off his arm.

“Whoa,” Osamu says, and places a steadying hand on Rintarou’s shoulder. “Are ya okay there? Ya almost fell onto the road.”

“I’m fine,” he grits out between his teeth. “Wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

Osamu catches his gaze and holds it. “Be careful next time.” His eyes are earnest and dark, a thunderstorm dappled with pale gray.

“I will.”

It’s a full ten seconds in which Rintarou briefly thinks, _he has really pretty eyes_ , before they both look away at the same time and as if by a shared understanding, keep walking.

“D’ya have any siblings, Suna?”

“Just one,” he replies. “A younger sister, Kimiko.”

“That sounds nice,” Osamu says wistfully. “Y’know, sometimes I wonder what havin’ a sister would be like. ‘Cause all I got is ‘Tsumu, and he’s kinda shit most of the time.”

Osamu reaches into the front pocket of his backpack and pulls out a plastic container with a singular onigiri inside. “I made it myself,” he confesses, equal parts hesitation and pride. “Tuna and seaweed, ‘cause I remember ya said mayo ain’t yer favourite.”

He sounds so hopeful that Rintarou feels bad about the dismissal on the tip of his tongue. He makes a split-second decision and reaches out for the container instead. “I’ll eat it.”

“Really?”

He shrugs. “Can’t hurt, can it? Besides,” he goes on. “You made it. I’d feel like a terrible friend if I said no.” He pops open the container and picks up the onigiri between two fingers.

Osamu beams, teeth and all, and Rintarou resolves never to say no to him again if it means that the smile on his face will stay. “We’re friends?”

Rintarou stares at him. “Of course we are. If you want to be.” He’d taken it as a given that Osamu considered them friends too, but now he’s having second thoughts. He opens his mouth to take it back, but—

“I do,” Osamu says hurriedly, waving his hands around as if to dispel any negativity. “I want us to be friends.”

“Glad that’s settled,” Rintarou replies. He bites into the onigiri and chews, making an appreciative sound in the back of his throat when the flavour hits his taste buds. “This is delicious.”

“Thanks,” Osamu says, satisfaction creeping into his voice. “I tried a bunch of times to get it right.”

Rintarou imagines Osamu in the kitchen late at night, shaping and reshaping the rice, grabbing ingredients from the pantry to make different fillings, again and again, and a lump forms in his throat. “Thank you.”

“Yer welcome.”

They lapse into silence, but Osamu breaks it after two minutes. “If we’re friends now, can I give ya a nickname?”

He says nothing, which Osamu apparently takes as a yes.

“Yer given name’s Rintarou, right?”

Something about Osamu saying his name sends a shiver zipping up his spine and he clenches his fist to avoid doing something stupid. “Yep.”

“So…” he taps his chin, deep in thought, and Rintarou hates that he notices how cute it looks. “How about ‘Tarou?”

“Sure.”

Osamu tilts his head. Rintarou has the distinct feeling of being a fish in a glass bowl. “Dunno if that works, though. Sounds kinda unnatural. I could call ya Rin. Or Sunarin. I think Sunarin works better.”

“Sunarin,” he echoes. Even though it sounds a lot better in Osamu’s voice than his, he has to admit—it’s a nice nickname. Rolls off the tongue. “Okay.”

“Great!” he exclaims, shoulders lifting and grin widening, and Rintarou is almost struck dumb by the pure joy in his voice. “Sunarin,” Osamu repeats, mouth curling around every syllable warmly, like simply saying Rintarou’s name is enough for him.

Five minutes later, they reach the intersection. Rintarou kicks the sole of his shoe against the pavement, scraping rubber against concrete.

Osamu waves at him and says, “See ya Monday mornin’, right?”

Rintarou nods. 

“Ya can keep the container, by the way. Just bring it on Monday.”

“Yep. Thanks again.”

“No problem. Bye, Sunarin!” And then Osamu spins on his heel and Rintarou is left staring at the back of his head. In the rich violet of the sunset, his hair looks like it’s been burnished a brilliant silver. 

Rintarou’s stomach flips.

“Fuck,” he says eloquently, to no one in particular.

Rintarou has never been interested in the noncommittal relationships formed by others in the orchestra, romances born from three-hour rehearsals and sharing pencils and whatever sexual thoughts classical music provokes.

He isn’t averse to the thought of dating another orchestra player, not exactly. It’s just never crossed his mind. Besides, they always fizzle out by the time the spring concert rolls around. He can do without the awkward glances and uncomfortable smiles that seem to crop up as they try not to knock into each other while setting up.

Whatever— _thing_ he feels for Osamu isn’t a crush. This is like the flu. It’ll go away after a few days. 

Right?

_________

from: miya osamu

 _sleep tight sunarin_ ヾ(＠⌒ー⌒＠)ノ

from: miya osamu

_i’ll make u another onigiri for monday_

_[1 sticker attached]_

from: suna rintarou

_thanks_

from: suna rintarou

_they taste really good_

from: suna rintarou

_see you then_

_**3\. sarabande** _

It doesn’t go away. The Crush, that is. It hangs over Rintarou’s head like a neon light-up sign, bulbs blinking in and out to spell, 'CONFESS, YOU IDIOT.' And then, a minute later, 'NO DON’T DO IT,' because even his subconscious can’t decide on anything besides musical phrasing and his favourite onigiri flavour.

Oh, and Osamu somehow gets more attractive every time they see each other, which should be impossible. Rintarou might be losing his mind.

Three weeks pass, and he and Osamu are still friends. That’s all.

The summer concert inches closer day by day, and slowly but surely, the sections start to come together. Kita gets better at setting the tempo in the intro; everyone else gets better at adjusting to it. It metamorphoses from a clunky, heavy-set collective of accents and staccatos into something vaguely resembling the actual piece. 

The first and second violins work as a cohesive unit, aided in no small part by Rintarou’s biweekly practices with Osamu and their markings on each other’s sheet music, which are gradually passed around to their respective sections until everyone’s on the same page with the articulation in every measure.

Sometimes, their conductor even leaves rehearsal with a smile on her face, which usually happens once in a blue moon. Now it’s a weekly occurrence, and he still finds it kind of unsettling.

Halfway through rehearsal one afternoon, they split off into sectionals. Rintarou leads his charges down the hallway to an empty practice room, one of the older ones that isn’t used too much. There are boxes of papers and guitar picks and Post-It notes lining the shelves, and he coughs when the dust floats into his nose.

They set up their stands and shuffle their sheet music. Once everyone is set up, Rintarou counts them in two measures, raises his bow and—

“What d’ya have goin’ on with one of the Miya twins? The one who ain’t in the percussion section. The guy with gray hair.” It’s Riseki, predictably.

Rintarou’s eye twitches. He lowers his violin from his shoulder. “I’m not sure why you feel the need to know.”

Riseki shrugs. “Everyone’s curious.” Rintarou turns to the other second violins, waiting for them to deny it, but they’re all nodding along.

“Yeah,” Yuuto chips in. “There’s stuff on the line here, ‘bout yer relationship status.”

He’s on the verge of a scream, but he exhales instead. “What stuff?”

Riseki and Yuuto answer in unison, “Whoever guesses right gets to pick someone to set up all of our stands fer a week.”

Rintarou breathes out through his nose again. Stand set-up isn’t difficult, but it’s frustrating and tedious and can take forever, depending on where the stands have been placed. “You’re going to have to put that on hold. Or cancel it, whatever.”

Riseki pouts. “Why?”

“Because it isn’t any of your business what we are,” he responds sharply, even though what he really wants to say is: _because I don’t even know what we are._

“Please,” Yuuto wheedles, waving his bow through the air and almost stabbing Riseki. “We all wanna know.”

“Yeah,” one of the other violinists supplies. Rintarou thinks her name is Michiko, but he isn’t sure, and it probably reflects badly upon him that he still hasn’t learned all the names of his section players after almost a month. “The suspense has been killin’ us for at _least_ a week.”

Rintarou sighs. “Look, it’s nice that you’re so invested in my life—” and here his lip curls, because he doesn’t find it even _slightly_ nice— “but it doesn’t matter. Besides, I don’t even know if he’s on the same page as me about our relationship.” He cringes at the word ‘relationship.’ Saying it aloud makes something jump in his throat, a flicker of hope igniting and blazing up far too fast.

Michiko perks up. “So d’ya want us to check fer ya? We can talk to him.”

Suppressing a groan, he spits out, “No. Thank you.”

“We’ll be subtle, promise,” Yuuto says.

“No.”

“But—”

“Nope.” He massages his temples and brings his violin back up. “I’m forbidding any mention of Osamu for the next month. Or forever.”

“Ya call him Osamu? Ain’t that kinda familiar?” Riseki asks, raising an eyebrow.

"No shit, genius,” someone hisses from the back of the room. “There’s two of ‘em. How else is he supposed to tell the difference?”

Riseki flushes bright red and sputters, “It was just a question!”

“It wasn’t a good one,” Rintarou says. “Now, can we get back to the music? From measure 158, this time. The articulation needs work. And Riseki, _please_ write down your bowing pattern and stop fucking it up. It’s throwing everyone else off.”

“Got it, cap’n.”

“Don’t call me that.”

_________

He and Osamu walk past the gates in silence that day. 

Rintarou expects him to say something, to strike up a conversation about today’s rehearsal, but he just hums under his breath and keeps putting one foot in front of the other, completely oblivious to the tension the second violinists have placed on Rintarou’s shoulders.

And then it starts to rain. Rintarou hadn’t brought a sweater that day; the morning dawned bright and clear and it’s almost summer anyway, so he’d figured he wouldn’t need one.

A fat droplet of water hits his nose and sprays out to the surrounding skin, sounding off with a _splat_. He rubs the sleeve of his shirt over his nose and looks down.

“It’s raining,” Osamu observes placidly. He reaches into his pocket and presents Rintarou with a Chuupet stick.

“It is,” he responds, taking the stick and unpeeling its plastic wrapper. Tiny drops sprinkle the plastic as he tosses the wrapper into a nearby trash can.

“Do ya like the rain?”

What is he supposed to say to that? He was never the kid who jumped in puddles and got their clothes all wet, but he doesn’t hate the rain either, not when he has a jacket and a good pair of shoes. Neither of which is available at the moment.

He pauses and tells Osamu, “I don’t dislike it. I guess you could say that.”

The rain is coming down harder. Every few seconds, a raindrop hits Rintarou’s exposed skin or lands in his hair, startlingly cold. He curls tighter in upon himself.

Osamu turns around to face him, walking backward. “Ya can have my jacket if ya want.”

“I’ll be fine.”

But Osamu pushes. He takes off his jacket and shoves it in Rintarou’s arms. It’s warm and thick. Rintarou holds it tighter instinctively, leaning into the remains of Osamu’s body heat. “Yer gonna get cold.”

“Thanks.”

There’s a skip in Osamu’s step as he swivels back to the front, splashing in a stray puddle next to the curb.

Rintarou stays a few feet behind Osamu, preferring to watch him hop around in the rain with abandon. His hair is getting matted to his forehead with water, but he doesn’t seem to care, merely swiping his soaked bangs away when they fall into his eyes and blinking every few seconds when the water spills into his eyes.

“Join me, Sunarin,” Osamu cajoles, cupping his hands around his mouth to whoop louder. “Don’tcha wanna have fun?”

Rintarou’s heart does a cartwheel, but he shakes his head. His dad will get mad if he comes home dripping wet, and if he catches a cold, Kimiko’s certain to get it too, then she’ll have to stay at home. She gets grouchy when she misses school for more than a day. He won’t risk it.

Osamu spins around, arms splayed out, head lifted to catch the raindrops. “C’mon, Rin,” he pleads, a roguish grin on his face. “Just for the heck of it?”

A jolt of electricity flares white-hot in Rintarou's gut, and suddenly he’s rolling up the sleeves of Osamu’s sweater and tossing his violin case down on the ground, uncaring if it gets wet, even though the cold will make it pitchy and out of tune fast enough. He runs ahead and laughs so hard his heart is fit to burst out of his chest.

Osamu seizes him by the hands and tugs him in a circle, spinning round and round. When a droplet of water hits his cheek, he wipes it away and keeps going, jumping up and down until his hair is drenched and his eyes are bright with exhilaration.

They continue on for another ten minutes. Osamu’s hands are hot in his, fingers rubbing his palms and shielding them from the freezing rain. His lashes are stuck together and water rolls down the sides of his face, dripping off his jaw and smacking on the pavement.

Osamu’s laugh rings out, deep and full-throated, and Rintarou _really_ wishes he could kiss him, sweet and warm and slick with rain. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stares at the softness of Osamu’s lips until a particularly large droplet lands on his forehead.

“The rain’s getting stronger,” he notes with some regret. “We should probably head home if we don’t want to be caught in the flood.”

“‘Kay,” Osamu drawls, a smile clinging to the phrase. They’re still holding hands. “Ya wanna stop by at mine? Might be better to take a shower ‘fore ya go home if yer parents are worried ‘bout that sorta thing.”

“Sure.” A reply comes out of his mouth too fast for him to think twice about it.

They pick up their bags, only stopping a few times to hop into puddles. Rintarou’s socks are already sopping wet and he’s soaked to the bone, so another puddle or two won’t exactly hurt. 

Somewhere along the way, Osamu lets go of Rintarou’s hand. He mourns the loss of warmth, but the feeling of Osamu’s hand in his never quite goes away.

When they reach the intersection, Rintarou makes a right turn, but at the last second, he remembers: _oh_ , and trips over his feet in his haste to follow Osamu left instead. It hits him all of a sudden, that _he’s going home with Miya Osamu_ and _he’s going to see his house for the first time_ and _why did he even say yes in the first place?_

The walk home is at least ten minutes longer than Rintarou’s normal trip, passing house after house on a winding road until finally, they stop in front of a dark red door. “This is it,” he declares, shooting Rintarou a small smile and twisting the keys in the lock.

“Your house is nice.” It’s cozy and comforting, the light trickling in through the curtains painting the room with warm tones. The entryway is small, but it opens up to high ceilings and the smell of dinner, savoury and spicy with a hint of sweetness, permeating every molecule of air. 

Rintarou inhales the smell and closes his eyes.

“Here, I’ll get a few towels. Ya can take off the sweater. I’ll toss it in the laundry.”

Obediently, he pulls the sweater over his head and he’s left shivering, water sluicing down his legs and dripping onto the carpet.

“‘Tsumu’s upstairs, he can show ya to the bathroom,” Osamu tells him, handing over a towel to dry his hair.

“Hi,” Rintarou says when he gets upstairs and sees Atsumu sitting in a beanbag, reading _Volleyball Monthly_. He vaguely recalls Osamu saying something about Atsumu being on the school’s volleyball team, but they—the orchestra and volleyball team—don’t really run in the same circles anyway, so he gives himself a pass for not remembering.

Atsumu looks up at him, surprised. “Oh. Samu said ya were comin’ to our place, but I thought it might be a joke.”

“Why?”

“No reason. The bathroom’s down the hall, grab yerself a towel from the closet beside it.” He jerks his head in the general direction.

“Thanks for letting me come over.”

“No problem,” Atsumu says cheerfully, tone playful and lilting. “We ain’t got guests that often.”

Rintarou heads down the hall. Osamu’s voice resounds from downstairs. “That’s yer fault, dipshit. No one likes ya.”

“Not my fault you ain’t brave enough to do shit ‘bout _someone_.”

“Shut _u_ _p_ , ya fucker.”

Rintarou dismisses the conversation, figuring he doesn’t have enough context. It doesn’t stop him from wondering about the ‘someone.’

Half an hour later, he’s curled up on the couch in some spare clothes of Osamu’s. It’s laughable how quickly he’s begun to associate the smell of Osamu’s laundry detergent with a surge in the speed of his pulse and an automatic tensing of his shoulders.

Atsumu is on the other side of the couch, flipping absent-mindedly through a catalogue of movies. A bowl of popcorn sits between them.

Osamu is upstairs, showering, and Rintarou realizes this is the first time he’s spent time with Atsumu one-on-one or even spoken directly to him.

“Whaddya wanna watch?”

“I don’t care.”

Atsumu grumbles under his breath, something about indecisive people and bad decision-making. “We’re gonna watch Howl’s Moving Castle, then.”

“Okay.”

They’re silent for the first few minutes of the movie.

“Didja know,” Atsumu comments, raising his voice so Rintarou can hear him properly. “Samu’s been takin’ the long way round to our house ever since he met ya?”

“What?” Rintarou’s heart leaps into his throat.

“Yeah,” Atsumu continues. “He usually walks with me, but now he goes the long way round ‘cause it means he gets to spend more time with you.”

“I—didn’t know that,” he mumbles, glancing back at the screen. Howl and Sophie are walking in the sky together.

“He told me to keep it a secret, but I figure it’s best fer ya to know since you two make heart eyes at each other all the time.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he deadpans. He squints at Atsumu doubtfully. 

“Like this,” Atsumu demonstrates, raising his eyebrows and staring into the depths of Rintarou’s soul with a distinctly lovesick expression, and _shit_. He’s right. Somehow seeing it on Atsumu’s face (and, by extension, Osamu’s) makes it all the more embarrassing.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. _Fuck_. So y’all better figure it out soon. I’m tired of hearin’ him tromp around the house with that damn love aria from La Bohème on repeat all day."

_**4\. gigue** _

Suna Rintarou knows a lot of things. 

He knows how to swap out the strings on his violin. He knows how to play (most) three-octave scales. He knows how to use spiccato on every string, he knows which point of contact works best for martelé bow strokes. He knows the entirety of the first episode of Dragon Ball Z from memory.

But he doesn't know how on earth it's possible that Miya Osamu wants him, too.

Because Rintarou—he _w_ _ants_. He yearns for Osamu alone at night, and in the middle of orchestra rehearsal with the timpani drum blaring in his ear, and during morning practices, and on their walks home when Osamu gives him homemade onigiri.

He longs for Osamu, and—allegedly—Osamu feels the same way.

He has no idea what to do about it.

_________

A week later, he still doesn’t have a clue. Something has changed since he went to Osamu’s house, a sort of tangible tension. 

They’re hesitant one day, all pauses in conversation and reluctance to break the thick wall of awkwardness, but daring the next, casual touches and easy exchanges abounding.

And yet, neither of them make a move.

Riseki asks if anything is different between them, and Rintarou says no. 

Michiko accosts him in the hallway and demands an answer. Again, he says: _nothing’s different._

It is, though. 

Osamu smiles more, if that’s possible. Atsumu sends them teasing glances when they’re getting ready to walk home.

He hasn’t done anything to indicate his crush. Anything more than usual, at least.

He doesn’t plan to, either.

_________

…Then again, nothing Rintarou does ever goes to plan.

_________

It all comes to a head at morning practice, predictably.

Rintarou isn’t a morning person. Ever.

On the best of days, he’s slightly more energetic than usual. Now and then, he can get to noon without a cup of coffee.

The worst days are on a different level. He slumps into the practice room at 7:15, his thermos half-coffee and half-Monster, and Osamu is already there, warming up with some open string spiccato strokes.

“Sunarin,” he says, sounding relieved. “I was startin’ to think you wouldn’t show up.”

“I’ll always show up for you,” he replies, and it’s a testament to how exhausted he is that the cheesiness of the statement doesn’t even register until a blush settles into Osamu’s cheeks.

“Well…thanks, I guess?” he stammers. “I—whaddya think we should work on today?”

Rintarou hums, zipping his case open. “The ending, probably. You can perform your solo for me too if you want. I’ll give you feedback.” _Less playing time for me_ , he thinks.

“Okay.”

“Let’s take it from measure 170,” he says. He yawns and closes his eyes. If he takes a nap for half a second, Osamu might not notice. But—

“Rin?”

He opens his eyes and Osamu’s staring at him, concern clear in his eyes. “Yes?”

“Are ya okay?”

“A little tired, that’s all. Give me a second.”

Osamu waits obediently, tapping his foot while Rintarou tunes, flips his sheet music to the right page, and turns on the metronome.

There’s something so instinctive about playing with Osamu that Rintarou has never been able to put his finger on, something that isn’t merely the result of melody and harmony coinciding.

Osamu’s quirks are ingrained in his memory—the way he tends to overcompensate in his bow arm when he has to shift, the drifting of his contact point closer to the bridge over time, how he sets his bow on the string a mere split-second before pulling.

For all of his habits, there are strengths. 

He knows precisely how to accent the down-beat without the conductor telling him to, when to lighten up in the bow and what kind of vibrato to use. The kind of knowledge that comes only from years spent in a cycle of practice and spontaneity.

They rehearse the last few measures again and again; experimenting with phrasing, articulation, point of contact. Rintarou writes down ideas on his phone and Osamu chips in every once in a while with insight from the first violin part that might help.

Fifteen minutes later, Rintarou has a page worth of notes on the ending. “Great,” he says, putting his violin down. “I’ll text these to Aran later. He can give us some feedback.”

Osamu nods. “Should I do my solo now? I’ve gotten a lot better at the cadenza and the double stops. All ‘cause of yer teaching, obviously.”

“Go ahead.”

He closes his eyes and leans back.

Osamu’s playing has improved considerably over the last month. He’s started to approach his technique in an equally stylistic and analytical mindset and despite the stuffy soundproofing of the practice room, his tone is clear and rich.

He leads into the double-stop section confidently, stumbling over one of the trickier harmonics but recovering at the end with a sustained, resonant chord.

Rintarou barely realizes it’s over. He opens his eyes to the sight of Osamu in front of him, silvery dawn light casting him in a halo of warmth.

“Was that—was it okay?”

He looks so hopeful and trusting and it strikes Rintarou, all of a sudden, that he’s never come to care for someone quite as easily, as _instantly_ , as Osamu.

He stands up and Osamu makes a questioning sound.

“Rin…?”

But then he stops short, because Rintarou cups his jaw between his hands, fingers calloused from years of violin, and kisses him square on the mouth, fitting their lips together clumsily.

It's not perfect, not by a long shot—their noses bump and in his excitement, Rintarou’s teeth almost ram into Osamu’s lower lip, but he keeps at it. He's dizzy and punch-drunk on the taste of Osamu, soft and mild and sweet.

Rintarou probably tastes like death, since all he’s consumed is coffee and half a Monster drink, but Osamu reciprocates anyway. He brings one hand up tentatively to run along the side of Rintarou’s face, skimming his jaw and the curve of his ear and coming to rest in his tangled hair.

Rintarou tilts his head to give him better access to his hair and fits their mouths together, this time with more confidence. 

Osamu, the bold, self-assured idiot he is, takes it as an opportunity to lick into Rintarou’s pliable mouth, deepening the kiss. Rintarou sighs in the back of his throat and uses his thumb to rub lazy circles into Osamu’s collarbone.

They pull apart after a few minutes, gasping for breath. Osamu is grinning wide. Rintarou plants a butterfly kiss in the indentation of his dimple.

“So,” Osamu says after a moment. His face is red. “That was that.”

“It was,” Rintarou agrees, still dazed. Then, because he clearly can’t keep his mouth shut: “It was good. Better than good.”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna do it again?”

And Osamu must be just as stupid as Rintarou is, because he agrees.

They meet each other halfway, kissing lazily. Rintarou wraps his arms around Osamu’s waist, and he marvels at how _comfortable_ it is. All of it. He doesn’t worry about their teeth clashing together, or using too much tongue, or not using enough.

Everything is effortless, with Osamu. Kissing him is no different.

“I like you a lot,” Rintarou blurts out ten minutes later, when they’re sitting on the floor of the practice room, instruments long since abandoned, and his head is in the cradle of Osamu’s lap, a hand carding through his hair.

The corner of Osamu’s mouth quirks up. He looks good from this angle, his jawline sharp and eyelashes curling softly at the ends. His eyes are smoky. “I gathered.”

“Good.” Rintarou’s gaze rests on the shiny gloss of his lips, kiss-slick and puffy.

Osamu pulls him up by the arms so they’re facing each other. “Ya didn’t ask what I thought,” he murmurs.

The tingle of his breath against Rintarou’s cheek makes him shiver. “What do you think, then?”

“Are you a fermata?”

“What the fuck.” Rintarou says, voice monotone, more of a statement than a question.

“‘Cause I wanna hold you.”

Rintarou extracts himself from Osamu’s lap and stands up. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Wait!” he calls. “I got more. Ya must be a fifth interval, ‘cause yer perfect.”

“I did not sign up for this.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he counters. “This is exactly whatcha signed up for.”

Suna Rintarou knows a lot of things about Miya Osamu. His favourite Ghibli movie is Castle in the Sky. He makes onigiri for Rintarou on weeknights, sitting at the kitchen counter and folding love into every bite. His favourite baroque composer is Corelli (for no discernable reason).

He takes the long way on his walk home so he can spend more time with Rintarou. He’s a good—no, a _fantastic_ kisser. Like the Tchaikovsky of kissers. 

He loves the rain. He holds Rintarou’s hand whenever he can, just because. And apparently, he’s shameless about pick-up lines.

And yet, Rintarou loves him despite these things—or perhaps _because_ of them.

He doesn’t say any of this out loud, though. Just sits back down and kisses Osamu again, soft and smooth and tender.

_**5\. chaconne** _

The day of the summer concert, he and Osamu walk to school together, shoulders bumping and fingers intertwined loosely.

“Are you nervous?” Rintarou asks. 

Osamu’s eyes shine. “No,” he answers. “I thought I was gonna be more scared. But I’m not, ‘cause yer here.” He swings their hands and skips a few steps.

Rintarou’s face burns at the admission. “Stop saying stuff like that.”

“Nah.”

They don’t stop holding hands when they reach the school gates like they usually do. The low, throaty sound of Ren’s double bass floats out of the building. He tightens his grasp on Osamu’s hand and readjusts his violin case.

He’s ready.

_________

Here’s how it goes: Kita starts with a few initial chords, strong and steady and grounded. Then a glissando. His fingers fly up and over the piano keys like they might soar off into the sky.

The opening phrase unfurls like the petals of a flower—the signature leitmotif.

The conductor raises her baton. Rintarou lifts his bow. He makes eye contact with Osamu, over gelled hair and music stands, and something passes between them, a magnetic field of electricity and understanding and eloquence. 

The downbeat. It starts off mezzo piano and close to the fingerboard, delicate vibrato pulsating with every note.

Then the violas kick in, and the cellos, and lastly the double basses and percussion, big and booming and rich. 

Rintarou thinks _finally_ , because this is how it was always meant to be, his heart stirring with warmth and the beat of the music throbbing in his bones and the bright spotlights practically blinding him. He glances at the first violin section.

Osamu is looking right back at him.

_________

After the concert ends, Rintarou corners Osamu in an empty practice room and kisses the life out of him. 

He lets out a small ‘mmph’ as his back hits the soundproofing panel but kisses back ten times harder, wrapping his fingers in Rintarou’s hair and tugging.

Rintarou tugs at the lapels of his suit jacket and runs his tongue around the seam of Osamu's mouth. 

He’s still on an adrenaline high from the concert and every point of contact between him and Osamu feels like a solar flare. His fingers dance up the length of Osamu’s thigh, nearing his hip.

The door slams open and a chorus of voices shout all at once.

“What the hell?”

Atsumu is loudest of all, jabbing an accusatory finger at the two of them. “I coulda sworn we talked ‘bout this.”

“Talked about what?” Rintarou says innocently.

“Whatever—” he flails his arms— “ _this_ is. I musta said somethin’ about public displays of affection.”

“ _P_ _ublic_ ,” Rintarou emphasizes. “This was perfectly private until you showed up.”

A couple of flower petals rain on them, courtesy of Michinari and Riseki and whoever else is making those inhuman sounds.

Oh, and Ginjima has taken it upon himself to play Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March,’ as if they haven’t all heard enough violin to last until the next concert.

Osamu reaches out and ruffles his hair, and in return, Rintarou plucks a purple petal from his jacket-clad shoulder. Someone whoops.

Rintarou leans down and kisses Osamu again.

He could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos, comments, & bookmarks are all greatly appreciated <3 thank you for reading!


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